Creepers

by Joanne Dahme

  The dining room was in front of me. The plain pine table that had previously been smothered with stacks of papers, photos, and clippings was bare except for a letter-size white envelope placed precisely in its center beside Christian’s journal.

  I crept like a burglar toward them, until I could plainly read my name written in Margaret’s sweeping script. “Oh no,” I whispered. “Margaret,” I pleaded as I plucked the envelope from the table and opened it as if my touch might cause it to disintegrate.

  Dear Courtney,

  I’m so glad I met you. Dad says that you saved us because the witch trusted you to be the living person to bring us all together. I am sad that I cannot be with you anymore, at least for the near future. It’s weird, Courtney. A strange sensation came over me when we buried them side by side. I experienced this flashing of memories that I did not think were mine. “Am I Prudence?” I asked Dad. He smiled and shook his head. But he did say that we are bound to her by more than blood, that the living ivy connects us across these hundreds of years. In that sense, he agreed, we are one. As I write this, Dad tells me to hurry, as we must leave, but I insisted that I tell you more.

  You knew, Courtney. You knew that we could not go far from the cemetery or your house. You know when we read the excerpt from Christian’s journal? Remember “And the spirits that come after you will fade, will shimmer into dust, should they leave this site.” There was so much that I did not understand. But Dad kept bringing me back to the ivy. “What did the witch say to Christian?” he asked. That the ivy was the symbol of Christian’s love for Prudence. Christian chose the ivy first, when he carved it on Prudence’s tombstone. The ivy is an unbreakable bond between them.

  It was the witch, Dad told me, not Christian, who believed in the power of the spirit to live long after the body is eaten by worms. Remember what she said to Christian? “Our spirits are made of our love, our hate, our desire—they make up our elements.” When Christian spread the ashes of the ivy around his bed as the witch told him to do, it was as if the ivy and his blood were fused. Christian died—but the ivy lived on.

  Dad believed that Christian did not want to tell the witch that he had moved Prudence from the old cemetery by the gravestone he had carved. It was only because of you that we learned the truth. In the meantime, the ivy grew stronger, and it learned to work with the elements to fulfill its quest. It made us from the life forces it knew. We became its children, and it taught us the covenant the witch made, to reunite them, so we all can be reunited.

  But Courtney, I am happy, too, because Dad promises that I will see you again. And that you will recognize me. For now, the cats will be our bond. Care for them for me. Our mission is done.

  Forever Your Friend,

  Margaret

  “It’s not fair,” I sobbed. “I didn’t get to say good-bye!” I yelled at the house, angry tears blurring the words in the letter. I stood by the table with the letter in my hand and began to bawl; all of the feelings—good, bad, and scary—that had built up inside me since I had met the Geyers only a few weeks ago welled to the surface. Finally I stopped, embarrassed, even though I knew no one was around. I sniffled and wiped my eyes and squinted into the filtered sunlight that threaded through the trees. Think, I told myself.

  Margaret was telling me that the witch had empowered the ivy to protect the spirits of Christian and Prudence and to do whatever it needed to do to bring them together. Perhaps over time it grew so strong and determined that it somehow created, with the help of the witch, Margaret and Mr. Geyer. It tried to guide them to their whereabouts, and when they failed, the ivy—and the witch—decided to use me.

  I remembered Margaret’s frustration at not being able to see the witch. If she and Mr. Geyer were a part of her, as they were a part of the ivy, then of course they would not be able to see her, as it would be like seeing oneself.When we were in town, it was Margaret and Mr. Geyer that people could not see because when they traveled a distance from the cemetery or the woods—from the ivy itself—they lost some of their power.The ivy was telling them, and me, that the trail to Christian and Prudence had grown cold. For whatever reason, I was the living connection that could see them all.

  I looked at Christian’s journal. My hand trembled as I reached for it. I expected it to crumble as I turned it over so that I could open it to the last page. I would read it all, but right now, I was looking for an answer. I opened the cover and the air smelled like attic dust. My eyes stung as I read the last entry.

  “I no longer wish to live,” I told her.

  She nodded and touched my cheek.

  Her fingers were so cold.

  “When you are ready, I will burn this place,” she said.

  She looked at the ivy I had carved into

  the walls, the floors, the furniture.

  In my delirium , I had taken her at her word.

  “We should leave no evidence of your spirits,”

  she said, grabbing my hand.

  “But first you must move Prudence to the woods.

  I must bury you side by side.

  You will be together forever.”

  I nodded.

  I had no strength for discourse.

  I did not tell her that Prudence was fine.

  I would not allow her to be buried

  in the woods like a wild animal.

  I would touch fire to this place.

  I would not leave my final fate

  in the hands of a witch.

  I would die like my Prudence.

  My heart was pounding. The poor witch. She really loved Prudence and Christian and spent these last centuries striving to bring them together. Somehow she was able to bury Christian after the fire, as Margaret said in her letter. The witch was the one who led me to his grave. I thought about burning buildings I’ve seen on television news—how they collapse into themselves—trapping everything that is still inside.The witch could not get to Prudence, and so for all these years, the witch had struggled to bring them together. Margaret had known all along, known in her heart, that the witch was good. I felt honored that the witch had trusted me to help Christian and Prudence. But what did I do to earn her trust?

  My heart stopped when I heard the whinny of a horse coming from the direction of the trail that led deeper into the woods. The trail that I had seen the witch stroll down the last time that I had spied her at the Geyers’ house.

  I froze in the door’s threshold as she suddenly came into view. She was sitting sidesaddle on top of that huge black horse, her black skirt looking like its cloak. She road the magnificent creature slowly toward the house.The trees walled the path on both sides, their canopies thickly intertwined. She looked as if she were emerging from a forest portal.

  She stopped where the path bled into the clearing, allowing her horse to tear hungrily at the green weeds within his reach. We stared at each other as I studied her face. Her dazzling green eyes stared right back at me. I whispered to myself as if I were reading a checklist—Margaret’s black hair, green eyes, delicate nose, and stubborn chin.

  “Where’s Margaret?” I whispered. I wanted the witch to bring her back to me.

  But the witch slowly shook her head and then placed her hand over her heart.

  She nodded to me before she turned her horse around, to direct him back into the woods. She bent to whisper something in his ear, which made him shoot down the path as if a gun had fired. They soon disappeared, but I listened to his hooves hitting the path until the sound was swallowed by the woods.

  Wait, I wanted to yell, but no sound would come.“Please wait,” I finally did call and felt a breeze, like my mother’s hand on my face. My heart was thumping again in those quick little beats, sharp and fast like the chiseling ivy. The witch wanted me to do something, but I was unsure what.

  I closed the Geyers’ front door and walked to the path that would take me home. When I calmed down, it would come to me, I told myself. It is just like taking a test.You always know the answers when the p
ressure was no longer on. That is when the orange cat—Margaret’s favorite—stepped from the scrubby plants along the path to block my way, its bright, hungry eyes demanding action. I crouched down to stroke it behind its ears and it purred approvingly. I felt the tension in my chest fade away. Perhaps Margaret would always be with me.

  And then I remembered the ivy was still in the cemetery and that its presence meant there was still work to be done. Christian’s and Prudence’s spirits—and all of the spirits who are buried there—needed protection. The witch had chosen me. She somehow knew that I could be brave and strong long before I knew it. She trusted me to help Margaret and Mr. Geyer to bring Prudence and Christian together. Despite my disappointment and the hurt that I felt in losing Margaret, I needed to keep her memory alive until we did meet again. Right then, I had to talk to my mom about what we needed to do next to save the cemetery, and to add cat food, lots of it, to our shopping list.

  Aldus Manutius, a highly influential Renaissance printer, designed Bembo over five hundred years ago in Venice, Italy. He first used the light, easy-to-read type in the late fifteenth century publishing an essay by Pietro Bembo, an Italian scholar. The typeface soon became extremely popular throughout the country.When Bembo reached France, famed Parisian publisher and type designer Claude Garamond tried to duplicate it. This caused Bembo’s influence to spread throughout the rest of Europe. In 1929, the English Monotype company revived the Bembo design using books and materials set with Manutius’ original fonts. By the 1980s, Monotype had created a digital version of Bembo, along with semi-bold and extra-bold weights and italics. This latest incarnation has solidified Bembo as one of the most prevalent typefaces today.

  © 2008 by Joanne Dahme

  All rights reserved under the Pan-American and

  International Copyright Conventions

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without written permission from the publisher.

  Digit on the right indicates the number of this printing

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2007942766

  eISBN : 978-0-786-74102-1